


Get Your Kicks (On Route 66)

by ix_tab



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ix_tab/pseuds/ix_tab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six weeks after meeting Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson lays down in bed and considers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Your Kicks (On Route 66)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a fic that failed and died, but I thought I'd post what I'd written, as I do enjoy it. It was written back after the pilot leaked for Elementary, but the series hadn't come out.
> 
> The conceit of it was that it was supposed to be six weeks, then six months, then six years after Joan met Sherlock. 
> 
> I only ever got out the first one, set a night after Joan completes her companionship with Sherlock. Warnings for drug relapse, though not described. Also this is essentially comedic?

Six weeks after meeting Sherlock Holmes  
  
She goes back to her apartment, and sits down, in the stillness. There's no drips of honey from the ceiling. The wiring does not flicker. It's her home, her little cavern of calm and familiarity. She has never resented it until this moment.  
  
She can't hear Sherlock shouting excitedly about what the relaxation of the sclera in a murdered man's eyes means. She can't go to the roof and watch the bees endlessly move as Sherlock observes them avidly, silently, his lips moving but no words coming out.

How can six weeks with possibly the world's most infuriating human being, in what is essentially a half derelict house, being thrown into murder investigations...how can that make her home feel lonely? 

  
  
She sighs and throws herself on the bed. She has befriended Sherlock, despite his best efforts, and she knows that he's not going to go away.

No matter what client she takes on next, she'll be ready for them. They won't be half as mouthy as Sherlock.   
  
She goes to sleep without undressing, oddly exhausted.

Her last conscious thought is that she hopes she can still assist with Sherlock's investigations. He had been right, it had been fulfilling.  
  
\--  
  
She wakes to darkness, to techno chirping, and it takes a minute of disorientation for her to realise that it's her phone.

She groans, and fumbles for it, hitting answer and then clearing her sleep-dry throat.  
  
"Joan Watson speaking," she says quietly.

She's given this number to several ex-clients. She knows her job ends when it ends, but part of her can't let them all go.

She's lost enough patients now. She doesn't want it to happen again.  


"Ahh yes, hello. I'm sorry for disturbing you at this hour, ma'am. This is Detective Abreu," Abreu's voice was in professional mode, rather then his usual mix of amusement and frustration. She finds she prefers the regular tone. She's suddenly terrified.

  
  
"What's happened to Sherlock?" She asks, shaking off the remnants of sleep almost instantly. Stupid genius Sherlock Holmes. Had he said the wrong thing to an angry perp? He couldn't help himself, he needed to see, to feel, he needed people to know he knew. Not everyone found it both irritating and endearing, as she did.

  
  
"Don't worry, he's not physically hurt. Uh, well, essentially Mr Holmes barged into the Captain's office, shouted a lot, broke a lampshade and then fell asleep under the desk. It was fairly obvious that he was on something. Captain thought we should give you a call, once it was clear he hadn't OD'd," Abreu says calmly. The amusement had crept back into his words when he'd mentioned the lamp, but left as he spoke about the drugs.

  
  
Joan sighs. She finishes the call with Abreu, and gets up, flicking on lights as she did.

  
Of course this is what would happen. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten a call like this, but this one had surprised her.

No matter his brilliant brain, Sherlock Holmes is still been a recovering addict. Cocaine had been his drug of choice, though he told her he had tried almost anything that had come his way.

For the experience, he said.   
  
But nothing had compared to cocaine, to the rush it gave him, how it made him feel that the world was finally up to his speed, how his body like an extension of his mind. Cocaine had made him feel right and centred.

  
  
It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did.

But how many times had she been told that her clients would be the most vulnerable when released from her custody? She did follow up calls and meets normally.  However, Sherlock had been her most unusual client, her most challenging charge.

She had been infuriated and fascinated by him and his antics, she had been pulled headlong into a world of mystery and violent deeds and justice for the dead and missing. She'd loved that part.   


She can't help but be annoyed at herself for getting sucked in by Sherlock's never ending hurricane of words and ideas, of buying into the image of the man. She knew it happened to some people, she'd seen it happen, but she didn't think of herself as someone who would.  

But somehow, she'd believed him when he said he was done with drugs, as if he wasn't a human being, as if somehow he had magically escaped the bonds of addiction, and would never be tempted again.

  
  
She mentally chastises herself, as she goes to grab a blanket to take with her, and leaves her house, rushing to the parking garage. He might be cold, or she might feel the need to smother him and need to cover up his body. Blankets were multi purpose.  
  
\---  
Gregson is standing out the front of the station, waiting for her. She is grateful to see him. Six weeks of working with him has taught her that he is a calm, intelligent man with an obscene amount of patience when it came to Sherlock Holmes' varied absurdities. She hopes his patience has not been worn out by this particular episode.  
  
His tired smile does not indicate that, but she can see concern in the tightness of his expression.

  
  
"Thanks for getting here so fast, Ms.Watson," he says, as he leads her through the maze that is the police offices. She shrugs a little. She would have come down to the station for any client, and Sherlock's become a friend. There was never really any chance she wouldn't.

  
  
"Is he really asleep under your desk, Captain?" She asks, and he laughs abruptly and turns it into a cough as bleary heads turn their way. Gregson doesn't answer with words, he just opens his office door, where Abreu is sitting, dozing in a chair. Gregson pats him on the shoulder, and he cracks an eye open.

  
  
"Any movement, detective?" Asks Gregson, pleasantly. Abreu snorts a little.

  
  
"Well, his Lordship was muttering about water before, so I went to offer him a cup, and he tried to kick me. And then he went back to sleep," Abreu informs them. Joan feels a sigh coming on. 

  
  
"So, now that Watson is here, I think I'm gonna go grab a few hours of shut eye. I've got an early shift in the morning," Abreu pauses before leaving, "Unless you are gonna need a hand, Captain?" He looked quizzically at Gregson, but Gregson dismisses him.

  
  
"Good luck with sleeping beauty," Abreu says with a yawn, and closes the door behind him. Joan is already moving around the other side of the desk.

  
  
There, curled up into a size that is frankly ridiculous for a man his size, is Sherlock Holmes, drooling onto his 'World's Best Mom' t shirt. It is already fairly stained. She rolls her eyes.

  
He opens his and stares at her, piercing and bloodshot.

He smiles and then rolls about, wiggling himself out of the cramped space.

He lies facedown on the floor, stretched out.

She's already wondering how hard it is going to be to get him out of here.

 

  
"Watson! It's great to see you!" He says, voice muffled by the carpet.

She ignores him, and using a foot, she prods him in the ribs until he rolls over again, and then he stares directly at the ceiling.

  
  
"What did you take, Sherlock," she asks, kneeling down beside him.

 

His breathing is regular, he isn't injured. As she looks at him, she thinks that it must not have been much, whatever it was. She wonders how much his behaviour was just him.

  
  
"Honestly, Watson? I was told it was cocaine but as soon as I inhaled it, I could tell it wasn't. If I were a guessing man, and I am not, I would think it was a combination of Ritalin, some form of tranquilliser and powdered milk. Most unpleasant. But I couldn't tell you for certain without performing tests," he rambles. 

  
  
He stretches his arms up above his head and she could see goosepimples forming on his skin. True to his word though, the crook of his elbows hide no track marks, save for the much older, long healed and since tattooed ones.  


"Sherlock, you realise that this is back to step one for you," she says softly, and he sits up, looking a little confused. He looks across to Gregson, who gives him nothing in return.

  
"So that's that, then," he says quietly. They share a look, him starting to get frustrated, her compassionate but unmoved. 

  
  
"We'll call your father, and see if he'll agree to extend my companion time. And you are going to go back to narcotics counselling," she tells him gently.

 

She stands up, and then offers him her hand.

 

He looks at it, sees her strength, and her softness and how the two characteristics were interwoven.

She wouldn't let him fall, but she wasn't going let him climb over her.

  
"I suppose I don't have much of a choice, do I?" He asks, and takes her hand.

 

He knows that's not true. He has a thousand and one choices.

This moment has infinite possibility.

 

He chooses, at this moment to yawn and inquire about stopping to get a snack before she drags him to the hospital, and holds the door open for her to exit the office.

She gently jabs him in the ribs, and then wraps the blanket over his now hunched form.

 

"If you're good, there may be treats," she says, feeling stress drop from her.

 

She listens to him complain about being ill-used as they exit the building.


End file.
